


Ironsider

by GasoliNe



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:05:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6005263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GasoliNe/pseuds/GasoliNe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The full moon is the mark of a beginning and an end.<br/>Like all things, a beginning first needs a close. Like everything else, it always ends in blood. </p>
<p>In which Hux is a murderous Faerie prince and Kylo Ren is a Changeling with his own agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ironsider

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this got out of hand really quickly! Based on a prompt and is an ungodly mishmash of different kinds of folklore, also heavily inspired by Holly Black's "Modern Tale of Faerie"-series. 
> 
> Un-betaed, so all mistakes are mine. All feedback much appreciated (like, seriously)!

The sun had already set when Hux returned to the Hill, the bag with iron filings heavy in his pocket. The churchyard was silent, empty but for the headstones sticking out of the soggy ground like broken teeth. It had been raining constantly for the last two weeks: even the frogs singing in croaking harmony each morning were miserable, half-drenched. Still, the air was crackling with an odd energy. Hux could see the lights all the way from down the road -- there was a party tonight.

To mortal eyes, they probably looked like nothing more than bright moonlight reflected in the wet asphalt, but Hux could see their true form. As he passed the horde of tiny, winged beings zipping around the gnarled ash tree that marked the entrance to the Unseelie Court they parted like a shower of golden sparks, cackling and gossiping loudly among themselves.

“It’s our prince!”

“Our Lord is late. Very, very, very late--”

“He smells! Smoke and mortal flesh!”

“Watch out--”

They disappeared into the night before he could swat at them.

He found the patch of dead grass marking the main entrance easily enough, and reality twisted around him.

 

*

 

_The Hill has always been the home of the Unseelie Fey. Even the Witch of the Willow can’t remember a time when it wasn’t – but she’s heard whispers of another place, once, before: rumours hidden in the sludge at the bottom of the river, murmurs within the bark of her willow tree. It’s long forgotten of course, but if she could collect the words, put them together one after another like pearls on a string, maybe they all would remember, could return._

_In the meantime, the Hill stands watch, surrounding them with layers of rich, dark soil and old magic -- shielding, guarding, watching. It always moves just a little, like a jetty rocked by the tide, just enough to throw off watching eyes, enough to keep them ungrounded._

_Maybe it’s better that way._

_You need three things to live in the real world, after all, and the Fey doesn’t have Names_.

 

*

 

The Great hall opened up like a gaping wound at the heart of the Hill, filled with screaming laughter and the wild, erratic sound of drums and pipes. Roots from the ash tree penetrated the ceiling, curling and twisting like pale tentacles above the heads of the dancing guests.

As Hux had expected, not a soul took notice of his entrance – they were too caught up in a drunken haze. Even the guard looked decidedly lopsided as he leaned heavily on his spear by the door: his small, red eyes tracking the movements of a band of gnomes dancing their way across a table, narrowly escaping a clawed hand that came sweeping up from under the table cloth.

Hux snatched up a goblet from one of the tables still standing upright and tried to blend in, taking a moment to discretely smell his collar. He could pick up nothing but rain, exhaust fumes and a bit of human sweat. Satisfied that the games of small Solitary fey was nothing more than just that, he readjusted the coat over his folded wings and squared his shoulders.

The party had already been in motion for several hours. As he wandered deeper into the bustling mass of people, he had to gingerly step around the bodies of the passed out and the dead. A gang of gulons were busy piling the corpses together in a corner, sharp teeth shining with saliva like icicles in the dim light. The closest one looked at Hux thoughtfully, its claws clicking against the cracked stone floor.

Hux’s wings twitched, hidden, underneath his heavy greatcoat. He felt his free hand move to his sword, all too aware of the cold iron in his pocket. He’d had to travel far to obtain it unseen, and now it was steadily burning a hole through his coat.

Normally, Hux couldn’t have cared less about the activities of Solitaries, but past experience had taught him to never leave his back unguarded on a night like this. He bared his teeth and slipped away, quickly putting a group of dís between himself and the scavengers before the gulon made up its mind.

There was an alcove to the left of the podium that hid the secret passage to the royal quarters.

Hux moved slowly, stiffly towards it. The crowd seemed to thicken with every minute that passed closer to midnight: people were making a last desperate effort to squeeze out the final drops of what this evening had to offer, the air trembling with a mix of deep fear and intense euphoria. A Full moon feast was an once-in-a-lifetime experience, the only time when Solitaries were even allowed over the threshold to the Court. For some of them, it would quite literally be the last experience they ever had.

The passageway was a dark hole cradled in the roots growing down the wall like a frozen waterfall. Some of the tension in his shoulders bled away as he drew near, mentally calculating the steps to his own chamber, his pocket feeling lighter already.

There was a blur of moment – a glimpse of sickly green cheeks and black eyes shining like puddles of oil spill – and he fell hard on his back, like a beetle, gasping and defenceless. The goblet hit the floor, golden liquid staining his shoulder.

“White Christ!”

His nostrils flared, eyes scanning the crowd around him, but the green-skinned fairy who’d knocked him over was nowhere to be seen. Several people had recognized the prince – it was the hair – and were now staring openly as Hux waved away the helping hands of one of the braver guards standing watch by the wall nearby.

“My prince!”

“Don’t touch me!” Hux pushed himself to his feet, furtively checking his pockets as he made a show of readjusting his coat over his shoulders. His face was burning slightly, but he’d rather let them snicker behind his back about how the prince was ashamed of his wings, still, than have the illegally obtained iron filings scatter all over the dance floor.

They would assume he was drunk and they would forget all about it, he told himself as he dusted himself off, still wheezing slightly. But that meant he couldn’t slip away yet, he realized and met the curious stare of a water nymph. She looked away, blushing.

He waved away the guard and snatched up a new goblet from a nearby table, determined not to look like he was trying to evade suspicion. The drink was something red and thick that burned his tongue. He hated it. 

“Where have you been?” asked a voice. Hux supressed a wince as he turned and came face to face with Phasma, Captain of the king’s guard. She seemed to quite literally have sprung up from the woodwork – she had an earthy smell about her, like woodworms and tree sap.

“None of your business, Captain”, Hux replied, a bit waspishly, and took a sip from his drink. The thick liquid stained his lips red.

Phasma’s jet-black eyes didn’t even flicker. The askafroa had grown up at the Court, and the whims of nobles didn’t affect her any more now than it’d done when she was the young prince’s bodyguard and he’d spent an entire afternoon using her still, unmoving form for target practice.

“Word is out that with Midsummer coming up, someone important is getting knocked down tonight. I’m not convinced” she said instead. Her pale, grey skin shimmered in competition with the silver rapier she carried on her hip.

Before Hux could reply, something happened. Outside, glowing faintly in the black night sky, the moon reached the peak of its path. Everything fell silent at once: the wind, the night, the dancers in the Hill. All eyes turned to the royal podium, where the nobles froze in place like soap bubbles in winter: waiting, hoping, fearing.   

Seated in the middle of them on his throne of twisting tree roots was the High King Snoke of the Unseelie Court, Hux’s father. Beside him, barely visible in the gloom, stood a tall man whose pale face was split in half by a vicious scar.

Hux felt his upper lip curling as he scanned the face of Kylo Ren, the king’s personal executioner.

 

*

 

 _“What is_ that _?”_

_The child is small and spindly, with dark wet eyes that tremble with some hidden emotion at the softest murmur or smallest whisper of cloth rising from the gathered Court._

_“Father?”_

_Bumps appear on the white skin; starting from his bare feet and travelling upwards, breaking out like warts or pocks on his pale thighs, like an infestation of mould on the quivering stomach and narrow chest. It’s cold in the Hill. Hux has never seen anything like it._

_“What is it_ doing here _?”_

_The High King smiles. Hux hasn’t seen him smile in a long time._

_“That is a mortal child. I want you to think of him as your brother”, he says and in Snoke’s eyes Hux can see the memory of his last brother, the one who died, choked to death in his sleep, found blue and stiff in his bed come morning. Hux curls his fingers tightly, hiding the rope burns that stand out in angry red against his small palms, wonders what his father knows. (He’s still got the rope, hidden under a loose floorboard in his room. It’s spider silk, expensive, durable. Besides, you never know.)_

_“My brother”, Hux agrees. His heart feels cold, the frost in his chest spreading and gnawing on the thick muscle like small hungry animals._

_The child is crying, big fat tears that roll down his cheeks like waves on the shore, but no sound escapes his mouth._

Pathetic. 

_But twenty years later, the mortal is still breathing._

 

*

 

The tension was palpable in the air as the High King rose from his throne. He looked out over the upturned faces of the gathered faeries, Court Fey and Solitaries alike, seemed to memorize each and every one of them before he spoke. His voice was a dry rasp in the still air, like a snake moving through their ear canals, each scale catching on the tiny ridges of bone.

 “My loyal subjects”, he said, opening his arms like a general welcoming his victorious army. “The hour has arrived. You have waited—“

Restless movements from the crowd, a different sort of tension building now.

 “—you have longed—“

A barely restrained, soundless roar rose in the air like a tidal wave, and an emotion gripped Hux -- as if the wave was a real thing, its shadow moving over him, his heart beating with the dread and suspense before the explosion of cold water would sweep him away to the depths of the ocean. For a moment, he felt only anticipation: of the blood, the game, the Hunt. He forgot about where he was, he forgot about the iron – for a single fleeting moment, he was one with the crowd.      

 “—you have _hungered_ for this moment!”

The great hall practically exploded with noise, like a rubber band pulled taut that’d finally snapped from the pressure. Hux came back to himself, heart beating fast and hard, feeling decidedly sick, almost angry at himself for getting caught up in the movement. He turned his attention to the podium again and saw something flicker in Ren’s face, could’ve sworn it was a smirk. Hux wanted stifled a growl. 

The King raised a hand, but no further words were needed – just as abruptly as it’d disappeared, silence fell again as Ren took a step from the podium, landing with a heavy thud of steel capped boots on the marble floor below.

People shied away as he started to slowly walk around the hall, his black eyes travelling over the gathered faeries lazily, like some sort of big cat stalking smaller prey. He passed by close to where Hux and Phasma were standing, his eyes locking with Hux’s for a split second – Hux felt a spark of tension passing between them, loathing and anger in its purest form – but then they moved on, and Phasma relaxed a bit beside him. Hux glanced at her for a moment. He hadn’t even realized she was tense.

Ren continued through the crowd, his measured steps echoing through the room. As he closed in on a cluster of nobles close to the podium, he put his hand the sword hanging by his side – a big, ugly thing that looked like it’d been cut out of an iron block with a hammer rather than cast by a smith. Ren was the only person allowed, or capable enough, to handle such a weapon – anyone else who dared would either get their hands burned away by the metal or find themselves a head shorter, as per the High King’s order.   

Ren seemed to hesitate before the small group -- all nobles from the Inner Circle, who were shaking visibly. The crowd waited with baited breath.

Ren’s hand twitched on the hilt… and he moved on.

Hux could feel the crowd getting restless now, but Ren seemed as unperturbed as ever.

He finally came to a stop at the far end of a table, hands twitching. A short scuffle followed as people tried to shove each other into the line of fire, but then there was a loud thud as Ren grabbed a satyr by the hair and pounded him into the floor, once, before rising and starting towards the royal podium again with the dizzy faerie in tow.

A murmur started up. This was… unexpected. 

“That’s– that’s the royal treasurer”, Phasma mumbled, a bit taken aback, and stared at the man with the cape of sewn together leaves and silver spirals around his horns being dragged across the vast hall. Blood was running in a steady flow from a gash in his head, but he was still thrashing in Ren’s grip, if weakly.

“My King”, said Ren. His voice was deeper than Hux remembered. “I present to you the chosen Quarry.”

The satyr hit the ground hard, teeth knocking together with a loud clack. He tried to arrange his body into a bow, but he was unsteady, listing to one side like a bloody parenthesis. His eyes flickered from one side to the other like frightened insects, but he remained silent, waiting.

King Snoke looked down upon him for a moment, face expressionless.

 “Is the people satisfied?” he finally said.

A beat, and then, a roar. “No!”

Ren drew his sword.

“What does the people wish for?” King Snoke rasped.

“Eye for an eye, heart for a heart, bone for a bone”, they chanted. “Eye for an eye, heart for a heart, bone for a bone--”

“Then you shall have it!”

And Ren brought down his sword upon the crouching faerie’s hand.  

 

*

 

_The full moon is the mark of a beginning and an end._

_Like all things, a beginning first needs a close. Like everything else, it always ends in blood._

 

*

 

“Are you satisfied?”

“No!”

“What do you wish?”

“We wish for a hunt!”

“Then you shall have it!”

The Quarry was released. They brought out the hounds.

 

***    

 

With the number and skill of the other hunters, Hux didn’t expected to catch anything at all, not with the iron still burning cold and slow against his thigh. But he did catch something – or rather, _someone_.

They were galloping over a deserted parking lot, the black hunting hounds leading the way towards a sparse forest down by the river bank. The golden hooves of their mounts clopped against the wet asphalt, but the hunters left no reflection in the dark windows of the closed gas station as they crossed the chequered ground like a host of ghosts. The distant sound of cars whizzing by on the motorway could be heard in the night, but beyond that the world was almost silent except for the dogs, and the sound of Hux’s own breath.

The hunting party burst through the trees in a whirlwind of gleaming spears and sharp hooves, but came to a halting stop by the river. The dogs had lost the trail.

Snuffling and whining they searched the ground below a waterlogged aspen tree, the Hunt – unable or unwilling to reign in their mounts – riding round and round and round them in a tight circle.

The Huntmaster dismounted and crouched on the ground, her gauntlet coming away wet with black blood as she touched the soggy leaves by the tree. Her mount -- a large, pig-like gloson with yellow eyes -- snorted violently, sending a spray of slobber over the ground. The Huntmaster straightened again and made a sound like a whistle, pointing, and with a triumphant call from the hunting horns and the thundering of hooves they moved out again.

Hux was the last rider to leave the clearing, but as he did so, a movement flickered in the corner of his eye. He reigned in his mount – a black horse with flaming eyes that rolled in their sockets – and caught the movement again, by a cluster of trees down by the murky river.

Something green.

He turned back from the path and dismounted, silver sword in hand. He could still hear the sound of the hunting horns in the distance -- a long, sorrowful note that echoed like the call of some lonely night bird -- but faintly. As he drew near the grove, it was swallowed by the sound of the highway and the lapping water.

His feet sank down a bit into the mud, the river having swollen from rain water and stretched beyond its usual boundaries to eat on the bank. Shoes and plastic bags lay scattered on the ground. An abandoned shopping cart was stuck halfway into the mud.

A flicker of movement again, between the grey streaks that were the tree trunks. If he strained his ears, he could hear someone breathing.    

The moonlight caught in the blade, and something came bursting out from the trees like a flash. Hux caught it, pressed the sword against a green throat – and there she was, the faerie who’d derailed him on the way to his quarters.

“You”, he said.

She was just a pixie – green, doe-eyed and barely reaching his shoulder – but she kicked like a horse. Hux grunted and went down on one knee in the mud, feeling like a club had been brought down on his knee.  

The pixie wrenched herself free from his grasp and tried to get away, translucent wings flapping, but Hux had a longer reach. He grabbed her wings, red in the face from pain and shame, and _twisted_ until she went down with a moan.

“Forgive me, you Highness!”

“Name yourself!”

His demand was met with silence as he rolled her onto her back and pressed the tip of his sword against her chest. As he did that, something rolled out of her grasp and hit the ground – a bag. Her nostrils flared.        

“What’s this?” Hux said and picked up the satchel, with one eye still on the pixie. It was heavy, and when he peeked inside a thick sweet smell penetrated the air. “Honey combs?”

The pixie nodded slowly. “Forgive me, your Highness. I couldn’t help myself. They smell so, so very good”.

Hux furrowed his brow and dropped the bag. It fell into the river with a low splash.  

“You’re lying”. They didn’t keep honeycombs in the royal quarters.

He pressed down with his sword harder on her sternum. The pixie wheezed, but didn’t say anything.

Hux turned the problem over in his mind for a second. “There aren’t many green elves in these parts”, he mused. “Maybe, given sufficient motivation, you will talk”.

That got a reaction out of her. Her face twisted, lips pulling back to show pointed teeth that gleamed in the moonlight. “ _Never_ ”, she hissed. “There is nothing you can dig up about me that I don’t know about you, your Highness. You and your big coat, ashamed of your heritage. You’ve got _plans_ , you Highness. Everyone knows, _everyone_ is waiting for the day the King finds an iron pin in his soup”.

Hux’s blood ran cold. “What did you say”, he said, pulse roaring in his ears like the trucks on the motorway. “What. Did you say”.

And he pressed down harder and harder with the sword, until she stopped crying or moving at all.

 

*

 

“Your Highness!” a low voice called out.

Hux froze. He turned around slowly, blood dripping from his sword and pooling on the ground among the sticks and mud.

A dark shadow detached itself from the others in the grove, and Kylo Ren stepped into the thin beam of moonlight. He had a smell of iron and sweat about him that made Hux’s skin crawl.

“The Quarry has been brought down. Everyone is looking for you”. His dark eyes slid to the body on the ground. “A thief, I take it?”

Hux cleaned his sword against the hem of his coat, throat feeling a bit thick.

“Yes”, he agreed, as Ren inclined his head towards the road in an ‘after you’-gesture. “Just a thief”.

 

*

 

 _“Who told you that name?_ Who _told you?”_

_The child blinked. “The King of course”._

**Author's Note:**

> Gulon - a Scandinavian legendary creature which seems to be a mishmash of a dog, a cat and a fox. It's a symbol for gluttony, really scary if you ask me.  
> Askafroa - another Scandinavian legend. A sort of tree nymph who will go to all sorts of violent ends to protect her tree (her home).  
> 'White Christ' - is a really old word for, well, Jesus. And in true Scandinavian fashion, I turned it into a curse. Sorry folks.  
> Gloson - basically a ghost pig. Dangerous, especially if you try to ride it (except if you're a faerie, i guess).


End file.
